Optimum Capacity
by ProneToRelapse
Summary: "I may not know what a caregiver does, or what it means to be one," John said quietly. "But I am one now – not by choice – and I'm sorry for what I've done. I'm involved now. And I'll take care of you. You're my priority."
1. Chapter 1

Modern medicine can only do so much.

John had said that sentence himself so many times. He'd never expected to hear it said to him. That was a laugh. The healer's turn to be healed.

But.

Modern medicine could only do so much.

By 2162, diseases like cancer, leukaemia and AIDS were things of the past; curable - as easy to cleanse from the body as a common cold. Blindness, deafness, paralysis - all cured. A miracle, society had called it, the turn-of-the-century remedy.

But, as with all new medicines, there were those who were opposed. Words like 'unethical', 'aberration' and 'inhuman' filled news headlines for years until the hype died down and it was just another thing that humans did to survive.

Cyberkinetics were the future. Cyborgs were the way forward.

But how like humanity to battle its own extinction.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-

_Kandahar province, Afghanistan. 9__th__ April 2162._

"_Alpha Two, this is Alpha One. Do not, I repeat, do _not _approach that bomb."_

"_This thing is primed and about to blow up, Sir. It's activated by a proximity trigger. None of us can move away without activating it."_

"_Then stay where you are. We are sending backup."_

"_No good, Sir. Timer says ten minutes. Denver estimated that it's got a seven mile radius. We can't let this thing go off."_

"_Captain Watson, don't you _dare _disobey my orders."_

"_With all due respect, Major, I don't have a choice."_

"_Watson, don't you dare! Captain, do you read me? Captain Watson…? Watson? WATSON!"_

_RAMC Medical Ward, Kandahar Province. 23__rd__ April 2162._

"Easy, Captain," said a soft voice. "You aren't used to your new arm, yet."

John refused to look at his left arm, refused to acknowledge the limb tightly bound in blood-soaked rags. He pushed himself into a sitting position solely with his right hand, though the wasted muscles shook under the weight of his body. Still, he clenched his jaw and pushed until he was upright, heart thudding with the strain. He swallowed heavily and turned to look at the source of the voice - a young female doctor with half a human face. Her name was Alison Kayber, one of John's comrades.

"What happened?" His voice was hoarse. Kayber wordlessly handed him a cup of water. John wrapped shaking fingers around the plastic tumbler, bringing it to pale lips. The water was cold and fresh and soothed his sore throat.

"You've been unconscious for two weeks," Kayber explained, her left eye soft with sympathy. "The bomb you encountered...well. Let's just say that technology can still be used for bad. Not much is known about the model thus far, but scientists are researching as we speak. From the...damage...it caused you, we can safely say that it was programmed to disintegrate human tissue. You were just in time, you and your team. You contained the bomb blast to a two mile radius, John. You're a hero."

"Then how am I still alive?" John asked. His voice was calmer than he expected it to be.

The human side of Kayber's face was frowning. "You appeared to be in the centre of the blast - the 'eye of the storm' as the old saying goes. When the relief team found you, your body was unharmed, but the arm that had been in contact with the bomb - your left - was almost completely destroyed."

John took a deep breath. It was steady and he felt proud of his control. "My team?"

"Safe. And remarkably unharmed."

John's eyes flickered to his arm against his will. "But..."

"Unfortunately, you didn't escape wholly unscathed." Kayber sounded regretful.

"Intensive surgery..."

"Was necessary. I'm sorry, John, but eighty-seven per cent of the muscle, bone and tissue in your left arm is robotic. Cyberkinetics was the only thing that could save you. Modern medicine can only do so much."

John fought the urge to growl. Those empty, empty words had never sounded like more of an excuse. "Can I see it?" he finally asked.

"It's your arm," Kayber said. Something told John she knew what he had just been thinking. "Although I would advise you to wait. The surgery is not yet complete. The grafting is only sixty per cent integrated. Your skin hasn't bonded with the metal yet and the sensor chip hasn't been inserted. You've been scheduled-"

"I want to see," John insisted.

Kayber paused before nodding and reached for his arm. She unwound the bloody bandages with gentle, practised fingers; her robotic eye glittering as it automatically examined the limb for any remaining flaws. John watched with bated breath as, inch by inch, his ruined arm was revealed to him. Kayber pulled away, folding the soiled bandages and placing them on the table beside the bed.

"My God," John breathed, horrified. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

From his shoulder to his fingers, thick metal bands wound around his arm, leaving irregular patches of scarred, red skin visible between the alloys. Large bolts had been driven through the metal to keep the frame still and in place while the remaining skin healed. But the skin that was left was raw and infected, bulging grotesquely past the metal as it tried to heal around the foreign materials and failed. John stared at the bizarre, horrific sight, hardly able to believe that the deformed limb was his.

"The reform surgery is in two days," Kayber said softly. "They'll cure the infection; regrow your skin so that it bonds successfully with the metal and insert the sensor chip into your brain so that you can fully control it. Everything will be okay, John. You are healing so well. It doesn't look pretty but..." She smiled ruefully and gestured to her face. "Wounds with cyberkinetic frameworks never do."

John swallowed again and closed his eyes. A slight tremor shivered through his body. "Two days...Two days." He shook his head and opened his eyes. "I'm being discharged?"

"I'm afraid so. I don't mean to label you prematurely, John, but Cyborgs aren't given the same rights as humans. We have to work twice as hard for our right to work. You'll be honourably discharged and your pension has been significantly increased for your services. The army is even offering to pay for your physiotherapy sessions once you rotate home. You'll be taken care of."

John looked at Kayber with a sad smile. "Thank you, Kay. I...I really appreciate everything you've-done for me-" John's voice cracked on the last word and tears filled his eyes, blurring his view of the woman opposite him. He let out a half-strangled cry and began to sob, pressing his right hand to his face to try and stem the abrupt flood of tears. Kayber wrapped her arms around her old friend and held him tight while he cried, rocking him gently as a mother would her child.

"Sorry, sorry," he choked out, pulling away and frantically wiping his eyes. "I just - I can't-" He gritted his teeth and trembled as he held back the cutting words fighting to be spat out. He shook his head violently from side to side. "Do you think...you could put me out? Until the reform op?" he asked stiltedly.

Kayber hesitated for a moment before answering. "I...can do that. If you want. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you," John murmured, sinking back into the pillows. He screwed his eyes shut. "I don't want to be conscious with this thing...waiting for it to be fixed." Kayber nodded in understanding a stood to dispose of the bandages, fetching a clean roll and a syringe. She deftly bandaged his arm and filled the syringe with morphine. She injected the drug into John's drip, eliciting a relieved sigh from the army doctor as he felt the drugs start to tug at his consciousness.

"Listen to me, John," Kayber said quietly, leaning down to John's ear. "Cyborgs are a minority. We are persecuted and looked down on because of what we are. It will be hard for you to adjust, John. It will be so hard. But remember: we are the future. Remember that. It will help."

John tried to answer but he was already drifting, holding on just barely to hear her words. His eyes flickered closed and he felt Kayber's warm hand on his forehead.

"When this is over, I'll send someone to help you. Remember the name Mike Stamford. He will help you." The hand was suddenly gone and then so was John.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Reform surgery is never pleasant. It involves cutting away infected flesh and grafting new skin onto the old that contains a rapid growth hormone to make it bond with metal and muscle in moments. The new skin is slightly paler than the normal skin tone of the patient, and it binds itself to the metal framework like strong adhesive. The process can take up to seven hours.

Before the limb is fully bonded and healed, several small sensors are inserted into the new tissue at strategic points. The sensors are absorbed into the skin and connected to a sensor chip that is grafted onto the brainstem at the back of the neck, just above the hairline. The chip synchronises with the sensory impulses of the brain and allows the patient to move the newly repaired limb as if it naturally belongs to them. It takes time to master the use of the chip, but it soon becomes second nature.

Fully aware of the process, having seen it himself a few times, John expected agony when he came to. Instead, the absence of it - although a relief - was confusing, even to a brain dampened by anaesthetic. He waited patiently, the fingers of his right hand twitching automatically as his body began to respond.

"John? John, can you hear me?" Kayber's voice sounded as though she was speaking from far away. John managed a low groan as feeling and consciousness settled into his body. He still wasn't in any pain; he felt almost weightless on the gurney, his body still wrapped in the dulling fog of the anaesthetic. He detachedly wondered how long he would remain pleasantly numb before the pain returned.

"Good, do you think you can open your eyes for me?" Kayber kept her voice soft and light, encouraging him with gentle pats on his good shoulder. "Just so I can check your pupillary reflex."

John groaned again, not out of discomfort but more because it was the only noise he could readily make without unnecessary effort. He slowly peeled his eyes apart, vision blurry and unfocused. He could make out Kayber's silhouette standing above him. Something bright flashed into to his eyes and he grunted, squinting.

"Okay, it's all good. Give it a minute and you can see your arm."

Suddenly, John was all too awake. His drugged mind was clearing and he was starting to feel the strange, low thrum that ran from the back of his head, down his left shoulder to his fingertips and back again. The dead weight that just a few days ago had been the ruined remains of his arm was now a reformed limb - alien and heavier, true - but still unarguably part of him.

"Easy," Kayber cautioned sternly as John tried to sit up. She placed a firm hand on his chest to pace him, her other arm sliding around his back to support him. All the while, John was staring at his thickly bandaged arm. He was morbidly curious as to what lay beneath, although the metal that now ran under his skin was going to set him back in the world - mark him out as less than one hundred per cent human.

"Okay," Kayber's murmured, plumping John's pillows so that he could rest comfortably upright. "You ready?"

Wordlessly, John nodded. He wasn't even sure he could speak if he wanted to. Kayber patted his leg and walked around the gurney to start slowly peeling the bandages back. "Due for a change anyway," she murmured, mostly to herself. John swallowed convulsively, his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. He kept his eyes fixed on his left arm, determined not to look away. He would not be a coward. He would face this head on, he wouldn't shy away. He would-

"...Oh..." John's breathed left his lungs in a heavy rush. His arm looked...well, it looked almost exactly the same as before. The only differences were the bands of pale skin that wound around it, as though he'd been sunbathing with strips of rope tied around his arm, and the angry red scar that ran from the inside of his wrist to his shoulder. He tried to flex his fingers and gasped as he felt a shock of energy strengthen the low pulse that was constantly running from his neck to his fingertips. His fingers jerked convulsively.

"It will take some time for you to gain control," Kayber explained. "We have a physiotherapist on hand for when you've gotten your strength back."

"...Okay," John mumbled. His entire body sagged. "Christ, this is...just...fuck."

"I know," Kayber said softly. "You aren't the first soldier to experience this and you definitely won't be the last."

John nodded slowly. "At least I'm alive, right?"

Kayber grinned. "That's more like it, soldier."


	2. Chapter 2

**Guys, the feedback I got for this was epic! It really motivated me to write, so here's the next chapter for you! **_  
_

**This chapter is dedicated to IllbeyourPatronus because of that amazing review full of kind words. Thank you so much, my dear. This one's for you!**

* * *

_London, 12th May, 2162._

Registering yourself as a cyborg was almost like signing your rights away, John thought morosely. Sitting in a blindingly bright waiting room and holding a data pad with a screen full of questions to answer felt more like an interrogation that it should have. The room was filled with other people, all with varying cyberkinetic faculties that ranged from an eye to full-body robotics. John swallowed, feeling severely awkward and looked down at the data pad.

_Name:  
Age:  
Previous occupation:_

The questions all seemed unimportant, but John suspected that was the point. The simpler the question, the least likely people were to lie and get the benefits they shouldn't. Honestly. It was the 22nd century and people were still trying to get enough money to get by.

John filled in the questions on the data pad until he reached the last one and a sick feeling coiled in his stomach.

_Briefly outline the extent of your disability._

_Disability…_

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Well. There you have it. He'd been aware, of course, of the state of human/cyborg exchanges. Discrimination seemed to be programmed into humans as absolutely as the Exo-net was programmed into a cybernetic brain. John had never considered that one day it would affect him. And on a government-approved form, no less!

Quickly typing his answer – _cybernetic arm, stronger than right arm, off-balance, not quite used to it – _he stood and walked to the desk were a chirpy receptionist was sitting. She'd given him the data pad when he arrived for his assimilation appointment, greeting him with a creepily permanent smile and a bright, "hello and welcome to Moriartech!"

You'd think the company responsible for the invention of cyberkinetics would employ more cyborg staff…

"All done?" the receptionist beamed at John.

"Uh, yeah." John offered a small smile in return.

"Excellent! The doctor will see you when he's ready!"

"Uh, thanks." John sat back down and laced his fingers together, glancing down absently at his left hand. He could still see the grotesque twists of skin when he closed his eyes; the bulging clumps of flesh that his arm had been reduced to by the bomb blast. He sighed again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately: sighing and groaning. Barely two months out of the war and already bored with his life. And if all he had to look forward to were the rights given to Cyborgs – or lack thereof as the case may be – then he was-

"John Watson!" the receptionist practically sang. "The doctor will see you now!"

Huffing and getting to his feet, John followed the receptionist down a small corridor into a room not unlike a consulting room. John walked in and took a seat in a chair opposite the desk. The receptionist left and the doctor walked in.

"John Watson?" the man asked. John turned to look at him.

"Yes, I-" He broke off. "Mike?"

Mike Stamford looked up from his data pad. "John? Bloody hell! I saw the name but didn't think in a million year it'd be you!" He chuckled and reached out for John's hand to shake it enthusiastically. "Last I heard you were in Afghanistan blowing up 'droids, what happened?"

John's lips tightened. "I got blown up." He gestured to his left arm. "Left me with a nice memento and a life of practically no human rights."

"Tell me about it," Stamford muttered. He tapped a palm over his heart. "This old thing ain't what it used to be."

John blinked. "You've…got a cybernetic heart?"

Mike nodded with a sigh and sat opposite John. "Yeah. Recurring heart attacks. Pacemaker wouldn't cut it."

John winced. "Nasty."

"Ah well. All better now. Still alive, that's what counts, eh soldier?" He chuckled to himself. "So! We're registering you into our little society, are we?"

John nodded. "I guess so."

Mike smiled. "It's not that bad, trust me." He clicked something on his data pad and gestured for John to hold out his left arm. John complied, holding his hand palm-up. He clicked his fingers and splayed them. A small, holographic screen lit up the air above his palm. Stamford typed something and the hologram flickered as new information wrote itself into John's Exo-net.

"Fascinating isn't it," Stamford said. "The entire Exo-net at our fingertips. Remember out history lessons in school? About the 'internet' and how limited it was? Thank God the invented the Exo-net or we'd never get anywhere fast!"

"Mm," John hummed, sifting through the new information, documents, files on cyborg rights and rules. He knew it all now.

"So, we just need you to sign here," Stamford held out his data pad, "and you're one of us!"

John's smile could not have been more forced.

"Fantastic."

"So now we just need to find you some accommodation."

John shifted in his seat. "Well, anywhere is better than the hole I'm currently living in."

Stamford chuckled and scrolled down his device. "Mmm. I think there are a few approved bedsits in Sussex…"

"No," John said firmly. "I'm not living in a _bedsit_. I'll find a flatmate if you can't find me a 'cyborg-worthy' home. I know _humans_ don't normally go for cyborg flatmates, but there has to be someone."

Mike shrugged. "John, you know the process. Every cyborg-"

"'All cyborgs must report to their nearest Moriartech branch one a month for reaffirmation,'" John parroted angrily. "'All cyborgs must follow protocol. Protocol is as follows: register, wait for a suitable home to be located, wait for an occupation to be allocated'. Mike you _can't _tell me you agree with this crap!"

Mike looked at John steadily. "I've been a cyborg for eight years, John. I've been fighting this system for double that. No, I don't agree with it. But I have to obey the law."

John looked away, ashamed at his outburst. "Look, I'm sorry…"

Stamford held up a hand. "Don't worry about it. You're not the first person to react like this and you definitely won't be the last. Look, what say you and me go for a drink? I'll book you another appointment for next week and I'll see what I can do. For old time's sake."

John's next smile was more genuine. "Thanks, Mike. And I am sorry. I just... It's been hard, you know? Adjusting to this."

"Cyborg life or civilian life?"

John huffed. "Both. I was in the army, you know? And now it's just..._nothing _happens to me."

Mike patted his shoulder understandingly. "I know, mate. I know."

John met Mike at the Criterion at six for a drink. They chatted amiably about what directions their lives had taken. John learned that Mike had gotten married and had two little girls. He showed John a picture from his wallet and John congratulated him heartily.

"Always took you for a family man," John grinned.

"Yeah, well. Always thought you would be too."

"Hah!" John scoffed. "With my need to run heedlessly into danger every five minutes? Why d'you think I joined the army?"

Mike laughed. "Good point."

"So, you work for Moriartech," John began after a moment.

"Mmm. They employ a lot of cyborgs, actually. Pretty good pay, too."

"So you help new cyborgs?"

"I also help to upgrade new cyborgs and help with malfunctions."

John rubbed his arm absently. The word 'malfunctions' made his metal bones ache. "Sounds…unpleasant."

"It can be. But not nearly as unpleasant as it is for unregistered cyborgs."

Unregistered cyborgs were often humans who went through procedures on the black market or couldn't afford Moriartech's fees. John's operation had been funded by the army. Had he been injured out of army service, he wouldn't have been able to afford the procedure by a long shot.

They talked for a while longer before Mike regretfully announced that he had to get home. John bade him farewell with promises to meet him again the next week.

He didn't live too far away, so John decided to walk home and get some fresh air. There was an alley down a side road nearby that offered a shortcut.

Halfway down the alley there was a turning that John had to take to get to his street. He was just coming up to it when he heard low voices around the corner.

"I'm warning you, pretty boy," a low voice sneered – male and threatening. "Stop poking your nose in where it doesn't belong or you'll find yourself without one."

John crept closer, automatically slowing his breathing to keep himself quiet.

"Unimaginative threats," came a low baritone. The other voice was slightly breathless and strained. "Dull. Predictable. Couldn't you come up with something a little more creative? I know you aren't the brains of this operation, and judging by your right hand, you received rather poor secondary education-" The voice broke off and there was the sound of impact. John guessed the first man had hit the second. He pressed his back to the wall and cautiously peered round the corner.

Two large men were holding another man's arms twisted behind his back, forcing him to his knees. His legs were sprawled out messily behind him and blood was dripping down angular cheeks from various deep cuts on his face. He had doubled over and was coughing painfully. A third man stood in front of him, one hand curled into a fist.

"I won't say it again, Holmes," the head assailant spat. "Stay out of our business, or you're dead."

"Another unimaginative threat. You really are quite hopeless."

The three thugs laughed raucously. "Take a look around, Holmes! You're alone and completely unarmed. You're lucky we got orders not to kill you. You're outnumbered. Ain't no-one gonna stand up for you."

"We _have _got orders not to kill me and there _isn't_ anyone who is _going _to stand up for me. Honestly. There is no hope for criminal intelligence these days-"

"Shut your mouth, Holmes!" the first man roared and drew back his fist.

Adrenaline forced John to make his presence known. "Excuse me, gentleman," he called, stepping around the corner. "But I believe this is an unfair fight."

"Oh, _wonderful,_" the captured man hissed. "Just what I need." He raised his head, a pair of pale green eyes glittering at John from beneath a mop of dark curls. "You should leave. Don't stick your nose in where it doesn't-" He broke off as the first man punched him hard.

"Hey, now," John cautioned, stepping forward. "Just let him go, and there'll be no problems, okay?"

The first man approached John with a cocky air about him. "I think you should leave now, sonny," he sneered, cracking his knuckles. It was a habit John detested.

John raised an eyebrow. "Sonny?" He asked politely. He tilted his head as though he were regarding the man standing opposite him. He smiled pleasantly. Then, quick as a snake, he thrust out his left arm, smacking the thug hard in the neck. The metal beneath John's skin impacted with the man's windpipe, effectively crushing the air from the man's throat. He gasped out and staggered, falling heavily to his knees. The two other men released their captive and surged towards John.

John tackled the nearest one to the ground, rolling heavily until he was on top, punching savagely at the man's face. The newly freed man leapt at the remaining assailant and elbowed him swiftly in the stomach, causing him to double over, and following with a rapid smack to the face with his knee. He was adept and capable, despite his severe injuries.

"Come on!" The man grabbed John's shoulders and hauled him up, dragging him away from the thugs and pelting down the alley at breakneck speed. He was tall as anything; towering over John as they ran down the alleyway and out onto the street.

"They weren't alone," the man panted to John as they ran. "Most likely they had a lookout. And you had to go and get yourself involved."

"You're welcome, by the way," John hissed back.

"Redundant. I had everything under control."

"Under control my arse!" John exclaimed.

The man suddenly staggered to a stop, almost colliding with a brick wall. He was panting heavily and bent double, his face a mask of pain.

"Let me see," John said, reaching to tilt the man's face up. "I'm a doctor."

The man hissed in pain as John examined the cuts on his face. "The cuts are superficial. I just need to get back to…my…flat." His eyes rolled back into his head abruptly and his body sagged. John caught him, making an alarmed noise in his throat.

"Right," John huffed, drawing an arm over his shoulder to support the man. "Looks like I'm taking you back to my place."

The man in his arms didn't answer. Instead his head lolled back on John's shoulder as he struggled to support the taller man.

_Nothing happens to me, _John thought drily. _That had to come and bite me on the arse, didn't it._


	3. Chapter 3

**Because I love you all so much, here's a new chapter all ready for you to read. New updates may be a bit slower in coming because A-Level exams. But I'll get them up as soon as possible.**

**Thanks to the wonderful JayMoore for her amazing and patient beta skills.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Huffing under the strain of carrying the stranger's dead weight down his street, John just about managed to stay upright as he dragged the half-conscious man into his flat. He exhaled in a rush as he laid the man down on his bed, shoving his legs up onto the mattress. Wiping his brow, John went to the kitchen area of his little bedsit to retrieve his first aid kit.

He switched the lamp on and pulled up a chair beside the bed, laying out the kit on his lap. He dipped the tip of a cotton pad in the disinfecting agent and gently applied it to the cuts on the man's cheeks. He hissed at the sting, eyes rolling rapidly beneath his lids.

"I know it stings," John murmured quietly. "But it'll be over in a minute. The area will go numb soon."

The man's response was to groan and shift slightly on the bed. "Hurts," he mumbled.

"I know." John put the cotton pad down and reached for the little pack he kept sterilised suturing needles in. He pulled on a pair of gloves and took a needle out, threading it and leaning forward to examine which of the cuts to suture first.

"Hold still," John warned. He pinched the edges of cut by the man's temple closed.

"No!" The man's eyes flew open and his hand snapped up to close around John's wrist. "I don't need stitches." His grip was alarmingly strong. "I don't…need…" He winced in pain. "I need…to get to the Moriartech labs. Can you… I need to go there." He curled up with a groan and coughed painfully. His entire body started to convulse.

"What's wrong with you?" John asked calmly, slipping his hands under the man's head to help him up. "I can help. I'm a doctor."

"I _know_," the man wheezed. "I…I just need help-" Another volley of coughs assaulted his throat. "From a doctor there."

John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why won't you let me treat you? The Moriartech labs treat cyborgs with malfunctions…" He trailed off, his eyes widening. "You're a cyborg," he realised.

The man hissed and convulsed, groaning through teeth gritted against the pain. "I'm…not…_registered_," he spat out.

Horror washed through John. An unregistered cyborg… Not only was he housing an unregistered cyborg – which was a criminal offence in itself – but he was housing an unregistered cyborg that was _malfunctioning._

Not that John cared about the unregistered part. It just meant that John had absolutely no idea how to help. He growled at that thought. Helplessness had gotten him injured in Afghanistan. Helplessness had caused him to lose comrades and friends. He would _not lose anyone else._

"Hold on," John said soothingly. "I'll get you help, okay? Just try and stay calm."

The man's eyes opened wide with fear, as clouded as they were by pain. "No. No don't turn me in, _no. No!"_

"Calm _down!" _John assured him, grabbing hold of the man's flailing arms and pinning them to the bed, using his robotic left arm to exert more pressure to keep him still. "There's no need to panic. I won't turn you in. I promise." He released the man's arms and pressed the phone icon on his device. He selected the name and called the number.

"_Hello?" _Came a voice from the device's speakers.

"Mike, it's John. I'm sorry to bother you so late. But…I need your help."

"_What's the matter, John?"_

John took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "I have a man here who needs help. I found him in an alley getting the shit beaten out of him. He's convulsing… I think he's malfunctioning. Mike, you're the only person I know who can help. He's… he's unregistered."

There was a long pause, broken only by the man's pain groans.

Eventually, Mike spoke. _"What's your address?"_

Sighing with relief, John gave it to him. "Please don't turn him in."

"I won't. Do you know his name? I might be able to find some old patient's notes that will help."

John turned to the groaning man. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked softly.

"Sherlock…H-Holmes," the man panted. "The name's Sh-Sherlock Holmes."

John turned away. "His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"_Jesus Christ," _Mike breathed. _"Alright, I know who he is. I'm on my way."_

"Thanks, Mike," John said. "I owe you one."

"_No, you don't," _Mike said wearily. _"But Sherlock does."_

John almost tore the door off its hinges when Mike arrived. Wordlessly, Mike hurried into the flat, going straight to where Sherlock was writhing in agony on the bed. He sat in the chair John had just vacated and pulled out his data pad, lifting Sherlock's right arm and checking his device.

"Activate voice interface," Mike said clearly. "Priority one, Michael Stamford. Five milligrams of Morphine. Release dosage."

Sherlock's entire body seemed to relax. He moaned softly and fell limply against the bedcovers, mouth falling lax.

"What did you do?" John asked quietly.

"We installed a protocol in his device," Mike murmured. "When he malfunctions, I give him a dose of morphine to ease the pain."

"You weren't lying when you said it was unpleasant," John murmured. "Is the malfunction like a virus?"

"Sort of," Mike murmured. He took Sherlock's arm and turned it so that his wrist was accessible. He held his wrist firmly and touched his fingertips to the crook in Sherlock's elbow. There was a pneumatic hiss as the skin parted neatly, revealing shiny metal underneath. John leaned closer, morbidly curious.

"His operation was a back alley job," Mike said, frowning as he took a few readings with his data pad, hooking it up to Sherlock's device. "He can't get an upgrade because he's unregistered, so he just has to deal with it."

"How often does he malfunction?"

Mike sighed. "It's sporadic but more often than I'd like, if it has to happen at all." He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "See this?" He turned Sherlock's arm towards John. Metal columns ran down beneath the skin instead of bones and an energy meter had been crudely installed into one of them. The small LCD screen on the meter was glowing red.

"What is it?" John asked, eyes wide.

"It shows how well his internal systems are running. They're never at optimum efficiency, even on a good day, but their operating system is lower down than it ever has been. And that's saying something because his body is cleaner than usual."

John leaned in closer. "Usual? What do you mean?"

Mike took a syringe out of his bag. It was filled with opaque silver fluid. He injected it directly into the central wire in Sherlock's arm. The unconscious man groaned softly. "Well…let's just say Sherlock doesn't really take care of himself."

John took that for what it was – a polite way for Mike to tell him it wasn't any of his business.

"He's stabilising," Mike said, checking the readings on his data pad. He won't wake up for another six hours, though. I've had to reset his system mainframe. It'll take a while to reboot properly and until then he's…he's not in a fit state to be moved."

"He can stay here," John said at once. "Just tell me what I need to do."

"In six hours _exactly_, you'll need to close his arm – you know how?"

John nodded. He did it to his own.

"Once his arm is sealed, activate his mainframe by pressing your fingers to the pulse points on his neck. The override code is 6-3-4-8-7-9-5-S-S-H."

"6-3-4-8-7-9-5-S-S-H," John repeated. "Got it."

"It's an audio relay," Mike explained as he packed away his things. He left his data pad attached to Sherlock's device to monitor his system and keep track of his resting period. "He'll need to hear it in order for him to reset himself properly. Or as well as he's able to, anyway. For God's sake, _don't get it wrong._"

Well, there was a nice helping of pressure, wasn't there? John scribbled the code down as well. Just to be safe.

"Thanks for this," John said. He felt an odd urge to help this stranger. Not just because John was a doctor and this man was clearly in need. It went deeper than that. John and Sherlock were the same now. Both cyborgs now.

Mike smiled tiredly at John. "I should be thanking _you_. I can't really keep doing this. But he has no-one else…"

"I'll call you tomorrow," John said. "We can discuss this then."

Mike nodded. "Good night then, John." He paused in the doorway. "One more thing."

"Yes?"

"…Be careful when he wakes up. He won't know who you are for the few minutes it takes him to reboot. He can get a little…violent."

"I was in the army," John reminded him. "I'll be careful, don't worry."

Mike smiled slightly and left. John closed the door and locked it for the night, walking back to the bedroom and stopping in the doorway to watch Sherlock unconsciously fix his own systems.

_What's happened to you? _John wanted to know. _What could have possibly caused this?_

_Who are you really?_

The data pad connected to Sherlock's device beeped shrilly. John snapped into wakefulness instantly, his army training kicking in. He stood from the armchair and hurried to Sherlock's side. Placing his thumb and forefinger on the skin either side of the opening in Sherlock's arm. He gently ran the fingers down the outside of the gap, causing the skin to seal shut seamlessly as his did so.

Deftly unhooking the data pad, John touched two fingers of each hand to the veins pulsing on either side of Sherlock's throat. The unconscious man's body stiffened and his head tilted back slightly. John guessed that was his cue.

"Override code 6-3-4-8-7-9-5-S-S-H," he said clearly.

Nothing happened. After a few minutes, Sherlock's device beeped twice and a tinny, robotic voice ground out, "authorisation needed."

John's stomach dropped. Authorisation? He didn't _have_ authorisation. Unless…

"Authorisation from Michael Stamford," John stuttered hurriedly. "Uh, priority one?"

"Authorisation not accepted," the device beeped. Detachedly, john noted that Sherlock hadn't chosen a voice setting for his device. He'd kept it at the default selection – robotic and emotionless. What that said about the man's personality, John was starting to wonder.

"Uh, John Watson," John said, wracking his brains for what to do. "Priority one from Michael Stamford. Um, primary caregiver? Authorisation given to John Watson. Override code 6-3-4-8-7-9-5-S-S-H!"

The device stopped beeping. "Registered carer Michael Stamford. Authorisation erased."

John froze. _What_? Oh _no. No no no no no!"_

"Caregiver status reassigned to John Watson."

"No, that's not what I meant!" John cried out. "Stop it! Temporary authorisation only, you twat!"

"Authorisation passed. Priority one, John Watson. Reboot initialised."

John closed his eyes and gave a heartfelt groan of frustration. "_Fuck._"

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his back arched violently off the bed. John leaped back as Sherlock scrambled to his feet, pale eyes wide and frenzied as he pressed his back against the far wall, putting as much distance between himself and John as possible.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded. "Where am I?"

"My name is John Watson," John explained calmly, palms raised in a gesture of peace. "I'm a-"

"Doctor. Obvious," Sherlock snapped. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked, surprised. "Afghanistan."

"Obvious. Obvious!" Sherlock edged away from John along the wall, although he kept his eyes fixed firmly on him. "Army doctor. Recently invalided home from Afghanistan. Registered cyborg. Left arm?"

John's fists clenched involuntarily. "Yes."

"Obvious! Older brother… Alcoholic? Yes. And recently left his girlfri- wife! Wife, of course, his wife."

John was staring at Sherlock open-mouthed. "How on earth do you know tha-"

"_Obvious_!" Sherlock shouted and slumped against the wall. John darted forward, arms wrapping around Sherlock's body before he could hit the floor. Sherlock struggled weakly.

"You need to calm down," John said gently. "You're not in any danger here. You're safe, I promise. As you said – I'm a doctor."

"Don't trust doctors," Sherlock grunted, eyes screwing shut. "Patient-doctor confidentiality is a load of-" He broke off and coughed violently. "Why am I here?"

John carefully helped Sherlock to stand, leading him back over to the bed so that he could sit down. "Remember yesterday? In the alley? You were getting your arse handed to you by three thugs?"

"And you interfered."

"Actually, I think you'll find that the term is 'helped'."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Andy you brought me here after I, what? Fainted?"

"Pretty much. Although it was a bit more serious than that."

"Oh?"

"You malfunctioned."

Sherlock went pale. Even paler than what seemed to be his usual whit pallor. "No," he breathed. "Oh God, you _know."_

"It's okay!" John hurried to explain. "I'm not going to turn you in. Mike Stamford was your caregiver. He's a friend of mine. I wouldn't want to get him arrested. He was here last night. He came to help you."

Sherlock seemed to relax slightly. He still looked slightly suspicious but then again he had every right to be.

"Wait." His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean '_was' _my caregiver?"

John swallowed and looked away, scratching the back of his head. "Uh. There was…an issue."

"An issue?"

"A complication."

"…A _complication_." Sherlock's voice went dangerously quiet. "What _kind _of complication?"

John sighed as he started to explain. "Well, Mike had to go home and I said you could stay here while your systems rebooted."

"Go on."

"And, well, Mike gave me your override code -" Sherlock's eyes narrowed – "but I wasn't authorised to reboot your system."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh god."

"I didn't really understand what was happening," John mumbled.

"Didn't realise- You've _reprogrammed me!" _Sherlock jumped up off the bed. "You _idiot! _I _need _a caregiver! I malfunction almost every two weeks! Without a caregiver I'll get found out! Christ, could you be more of an absolute-"

"Priority one, John Watson," John snapped angrily. Sherlock's entire body stiffened.

"I may not know what a caregiver does, or what it means to be one," John said quietly. "But I am one now – not by choice – and I'm sorry for what I've done. I'm involved now. And I'll take care of you. You're my priority. I'm hardly going to turn you in and risk exposing myself as your accomplice, am I?"

Sherlock exhaled heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. No, this is okay, this can work." He took a deep breath before opening his eyes to look at John. "I appreciate what you've done, Doctor Watson."

"Looks like we're going to have to come up with some kind of plan," John said.

Before Sherlock could answer, the device around his wrist started to beep. He examined the screen and grinned widely. "No time for that now. I've got to go to work." He looked at John for a long moment. "Want to come?"

John looked perplexed. "What do you do?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted. "I'm the last person the police come to before admitting defeat."

"Oh?"

"Oh yes. And I could use an assistant."

John shook his head. "Why would the police come to you? What _are _you?"

Sherlock spread his arms. "I'm a Consulting Detective. The only one in the world - I invented the job."

"A detective?"

Sherlock nodded. "As I said, I need an assistant. Preferably one who's seen a fair bit of trouble in his time. A doctor at best. An _army _doctor would be a bonus. Are you any good?"

"_Very _good," John said emphatically.

"And he'd have to have seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths. Seen any of those?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Too many – far too many. Enough for a life time."

Sherlock smiled slowly. "Want to see some more?"

John knew he should have said no. He was getting too far in over his head. He should have called Mike and asked him how to reassign Sherlock into his care. But John had a problem.

He just didn't want to do that.

John caught Sherlock's gaze. "Oh _God, _yes."


	4. Chapter 4

**In celebration of the fact that I did not in fact die during my A-Level exams, I have written another chapter for you! Thanks as always to my beta JayMoore.**

* * *

Sherlock hailed a cab from outside John's flat with the impatient air of someone very late. He scowled as one cabbie drove past without as much as a glance in his direction and bounced irritably on the balls of his feet.

"You only _just _got a message," John said, zipping up his jacket. "Why the hurry? Are you late?"

Sherlock looked at him with a moue of discontent. "Yes. In a sense. I was supposed to be in Brixton yesterday evening. Before I was accosted."

John snorted. "You were more than accosted, mate."

"Yes, _thank _you, Doctor Watson," Sherlock snapped.

"Why Brixton?"

"There was a murder there."

John's eyebrows rose. "And you're investigating it," he realised.

"Obviously not," Sherlock drawled. "Investigating implies that I'm looking at the evidence and making assumptions towards solving the case. I am nowhere near the evidence and can therefore not do any investigating. But once we get to Brixton, yes, I shall be investigating."

John looked at him. "You _really _love the sound of your own voice, don't you?"

The detective's lips twitched slightly. "A little."

John chuckled to himself and brought two fingers to his lips as Sherlock tried and failed to hail another cab. He let out a piercing whistle that made Sherlock wince slightly. He grinned as a cab pulled up in front of them. "Sorry."

Sherlock climbed in wordlessly and barked the direction at the cabbie. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

John settled in next to Sherlock for what promised to be a severely awkward drive. He folded his hands in his lap and crossed his legs, foot twitching absently. He glanced at Sherlock who was typing rapidly on his device. The detective seemed unaware of his surroundings, or at least, completely uninterested.

"Stop it," Sherlock said after a moment. John looked up in surprise.

"What?"

"Bouncing your foot. I can see it in my peripheral vision. It's distracting me."

"Oh." John lowered his foot self-consciously. He stared out of the window.

Sherlock sighed. "God, I can _hear _you thinking. Say something, will you?"

"What do you want me to say?"

Sherlock gave him a disparaging glance. "Something decidedly _not _stupid."

"Uh…" John looked down at his hands. "Oh. I don't have a brother."

Sherlock looked at him with a frown. "Why should that interest me? What relevance does that have?"

John smiled slightly. "You said earlier that I had a brother who had recently left his wife. You were wrong."

The expression on Sherlock's face could have burned through steel. "_What._" He said flatly.

John relished this moment. He could guess that the longer he spent in Sherlock's company, the more he'd have to get used to being wrong. So being able to get one up on the detective now was good while it lasted and John intended to savour it.

"But your device…" Sherlock began, his brows drawing together. He reached for John's wrist. "It's inscribed with 'Harry Watson'."

"Harry is short for Harriet," John grinned. "_She _recently left her wife." He paused for a moment. "Hold on, you got _that _from one look at my device?"

Sherlock huffed, not listening. "There's always _something,_" he muttered.

"No, how did you know she'd left her wife?" John persisted.

"The background on the device," Sherlock explained. "It's a picture of a young woman but you have no evidence in your flat to indicate that there has been anyone on your life since you joined the army. No wedding ring, no photos. You live alone. Do you not know how to change the background?"

John laughed. "No. I'm crap with technology. With is ironic. Always accidentally rebooted the army computers by accident…" He trailed off, his cheeks flushing awkwardly. "Uh, sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's fine," Sherlock said briskly. "It doesn't matter." He checked his device. "And don't mention it. _Ever._ If your small mind can manage that."

John had a feeling he'd upset Sherlock more than he was willing to let on. He opened his mouth to offer one more apology when he noticed Sherlock wince slightly.

"You okay?" John asked in concern. He automatically reached one hand out to feel Sherlock's forehead for a temperature, but snatched his hand away when his thoughts caught up with his actions. And cyborg skin temperatures were naturally cooler than humans. Especially when the entire skeletal frame was cyberkinetic.

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered. His voice sounded slightly strained.

"Are you in pain?" John asked in a low voice.

"…Yes," Sherlock admitted and then looked furious with himself for exposing a sign of weakness. "But it's fine. This always happens after I…"

"Anything I can do?" John questioned. "I want to help."

Sherlock hissed in pain. "I need Mike."

"He's not your caregiver anymore," John reminded him. "_I_ am. What do you need?"

Sherlock's expression cleared momentarily. "A dose of morphine would help."

John looked doubtful. "Isn't that a bit strong?"

A pair of pain-filled grey eyes settled on him. "No."

"But you're going to _work_," John insisted.

"I'm not going to operate heavy machinery," Sherlock scoffed and the winced again.

John's tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip while he wondered how much pain Sherlock was in for morphine to be thought of as a _weak_ painkiller. Nodding, he leaned into Sherlock's personal space and whispered in his ear so the cabbie wouldn't overhear. "Five milligrams of Morphine. Release dosage."

Sherlock gave a full-body shudder and relaxed into the seat. He sighed and looked at John though half-lidded eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't mention it," John murmured, gazing at Sherlock's relaxed face. He looked away abruptly when he realised he'd been staring for longer than was strictly acceptable.

"Almost there," John said, mostly to himself. Sherlock just hummed and leaned his head back against the seat, eyes sliding closed.

John chose that moment to send a quick message to Mike.

_Problem. –JW_

The response was quicker than he thought it would be.

_Oh, God, what happened? –MS_

John glanced over at Sherlock.

_Caregiver status reassigned. –JW_

_To who? –MS_

_Me. –JW_

_Oh my God. –MS_

_I know. What do I do? –JW_

_I hate to tell you, mate, but the only way to get rid of him now is to turn him in. –MS_

The thought made John's stomach clench.

_No. –JW_

_Good. That's good. –JW_

_So what do I do? What does he need? –JW_

The next text Mike sent him contained a list of things not to do with Sherlock. They made John's eyes widen.

_**Do not:**_

_**Let him have more than five mgs of morphine every two weeks. **_

_**Leave him alone with fire, chemicals or animals.**_

_**Let him go out alone without his device and data pad. You must be ready to administer care whenever he needs it. Your schedule runs on him now, John. Sorry.**_

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. Well, he'd already messed up the first requirement. Hopefully it wouldn't matter too much…

"Do you often lie to get your own way?" John asked irritably. Sherlock snorted and did not open his eyes.

"All the time."

John couldn't say he was surprised. "You hooked on morphine or something?"

This time Sherlock cracked one eye open to look at John. "No."

"Is that a lie?" John challenged.

"No."

John sighed. "I don't even care. I don't even know how this is going to work…"

The cab slowed to a stop and Sherlock seemed to break out of his morphine-induced haze with alarming ease. He climbed out of the cab and paid the driver while John surveyed their surroundings. A whole squad of police cars were parked in the street and the area was cordoned off with yellow tape. John followed meekly while Sherlock strutted around as if he owned the place.

"What are _you _doing here?" A robotic yet feminine voice demanded. John turned to see a young woman with dark skin glaring at Sherlock with undisguised dislike. She had a voice modulator strapped to her throat. Possibly the result of a wounded trachea, John thought.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Why?" The woman demanded.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I was invited."

"_Why_?"

"I _think _he wants me to take a look."

The woman scowled. "Well you know what I think, don't you?"

Sherlock's smile was frankly alarming. "Always, Sally."

The woman's eyes narrowed angrily but she lifted the tape grudgingly to allow Sherlock under. Her eyes settled on John. "Who's this?"

"Colleague," Sherlock said briskly and raised the tape for John to step under. "Official business. Nice speaking to you, Sally."

"Sherlock, I'm not your colleague," John hissed as they walked passed several police officers, all of them eyeing Sherlock with expressions ranging from annoyance to distrust to apprehension. "I'm just coming with you because…well, I don't know exactly why I'm here."

"I could tell you exactly why you're here," Sherlock murmured, leaning close to John as they approached the house the officers where moving in and out of. "But I don't think you'd appreciate the psychoanalysis."

John snorted. "Then tell me later."

"Will do." Oddly enough, it sounded like Sherlock intended to do exactly that.

Sherlock stopped abruptly at the gate to the house and made an irritated noise in his throat. John looked at him questioningly.

"It looks as though a herd of elephants has traipsed through here," Sherlock muttered. "I can't tell anything from the ground, now. Any possible footprints or oil residue has been pressed into the mud or contaminated. Ugh!"

Eyes wide in disbelief, John looked up the muddy path. "You could really get information from a muddy path?"

Sherlock turned his gaze on him, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He didn't say anything, just straightened up and walked into the house.

"There you are," a grey-haired police officer said. "What took you so long?"

"I was busy," Sherlock said. "Otherwise engaged."

The officer's eyes flickered to John. "Oh…Who's this?"

"He's with me," Sherlock said, and settled the matter.

John had a creeping feeling he knew what the officer was thinking.

"So, Lestrade, what do we have?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to the curious expression on the older man's face, and the nervous expression on John's.

"He's upstairs," Lestrade said. He led them up the stairway and stopped them just outside a room. "You know the drill," he said to Sherlock sternly. "Two minutes only."

Sherlock nodded and stepped into the room in a dramatic swirl of his coattails. John glanced at Lestrade who sighed and gestured for him to follow Sherlock in.

"His name's Luke Terpson," Lestrade explained. "Not much else we know, just yet."

The body of a young boy was lying on the floor. He couldn't have been older than seventeen. John stopped a few feet away and sighed sadly. Sherlock did not such thing, and had taken a small plastic magnifying glass out of his pocket. He was examining the body intently while John and Lestrade watched on in silence.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked when Sherlock straightened up.

"Not much," Sherlock said, pocketing the magnifying glass. "Seventeen, student. Originally from Suffolk." He bent down and unstrapped the device from the boy's wrist. He examined it for a few moments. "Staying with friends for a few days…" He looked at John. "What do you think?"

John blinked. "Of the device?"

"Of the body."

"Uh, Sherlock…" Lestrade said quickly. "We have a team for this. This isn't 'bring your boyfriend to work' day."

"Isn't it?" Sherlock said drily while John spluttered out a denial. "I must have gotten the date mixed up."

"We're not-he and I…I'm not-!" John stammered uselessly.

"The _body, _Doctor Watson," Sherlock said impatiently. John sighed and looked at Lestrade who huffed and waved him on.

John knelt close to the body. The boy was curled up into a tight ball, his expression one of intense agony. As far as it went, John suspected poison – a caustic, possibly. He reached for the boy's wrist and stopped abruptly. Rigor Mortis wouldn't have made the body that stiff…

"This boy is a cyborg," John realised.

"_What_?" Lestrade demanded. "Can't be - he's not registered."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "Unregistered cyborg… Now who'd want to kill an unregistered cyborg… Possibly the killer knew he was a cyborg…" He trailed off and knelt down to use the device to ascertain what parts of the boy's body were cyberkinetic. "But this looks like a malfunction…"

"Right leg is cyberkinetic," Sherlock murmured. "Maybe from a childhood accident..."

"How could you know that?" John demanded.

Sherlock lifted the boy's trouser leg up. "New scarring pattern over and old one. He's had a refit operation in the past three weeks. Which means he was involved in an accident that means he needs an operation whenever he grows to keep his legs the same length."

"That's brilliant," John said, stunned. Sherlock's eyes widened in pleasure at the praise.

"Contact his parents," Sherlock said to Lestrade. "Get them to come down here. When they do, I want to speak to them. There's almost no chance his parents didn't know."

"Might want to give them time to grieve first," John suggested gently. Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

"Why? Wouldn't they want to catch the boy's killer first?"

John and Lestrade looked at him. "What?" he demanded. "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah," John said quietly.

"Whatever," Sherlock huffed. "I'll need the centreframe matrix," he said to Lestrade. "If he's an unregistered, that could help us."

"We'll need to take him to the morgue first," Lestrade said. "Let his parents see him. Then I'll see if you can come and examine it after. And how would it help, anyway?"

"It will lead us to the person who did his back-alley operation."

"_How_ would it?"

"Every back-alley surgeon leaves a signature," Sherlock said solemnly. "Easy enough to find if you know what to look for." He turned to sweep from the room. "John!" He barked. John followed him obediently.

"Why do you need his matrix?" John whispered as they walked back downstairs.

"There's a possibility that he malfunctioned," Sherlock murmured back. "I need to know if he did or not. There's no registered malfunctions on his device, which means his back-alley surgeon was experienced. Most likely a doctor with a revoked medical license…" He trailed off, expression thoughtful.

"So you think the killer has remotely activated a malfunction?" John asked. "Like a planting a computer virus?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh… That's _it!_"

"Sherlock?" John questioned. The detective didn't say anything. What he did was run out of the house and down the street, leaving John behind in all senses of the phrase. The doctor stared after him in shock.

"Leave you behind, did he?" The woman from before – Sally – walked over to him. "He runs off all the time. Never had someone here to leave behind before, though. Bit more dramatic than usual."

John exhaled heavily. "Probably not coming back."

"Probably not. He's got a bit of a reputation around here. High and mighty. Treats cyborgs like shit, too."

John tried not to react to that. He didn't believe that for a second. "Anywhere I can get a cab?"

"Try the main road," Sally said. John nodded and started to walk away. Sally called after him.

"You're not his friend," she said. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm…no one," John sighed, scratching the back of his head. "No one at all."

Sally eyed him warily. "Bit of advice – stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

John bristled. Who was she to tell him to stay away from Sherlock? And he _couldn't. _Sherlock was his responsibility now. John couldn't just desert the mad man. Sherlock would die without a caregiver.

Was that the cause behind the arrogance and the rudeness? Did Sherlock resent having to put his life into someone else's hands?

Had there been someone before who had broken his trust?

Maybe John would do a bit of his own detective work. But first he had to find the madman. It was dangerous to let Sherlock go off on his own, Mike had said. John didn't doubt that Sherlock was left to his own devices most of the time. Mike couldn't jeopardise his family by spending every possible moment with Sherlock. That would be okay, except John had no idea how to contact Sherlock. He didn't have him listed as a contact on his device.

He ran a hand through his hair and walked down to the main road in the direction Sally had pointed him. He honestly had no idea where to even start looking for Sherlock. He was of half a mind to just go home and hope that Sherlock would turn up there at some point to let John know he hadn't malfunctioned by a roadside or something. But John wondered if it would even occur to Sherlock to be that considerate.

Raising one arm, John tried and failed to hail a cab. The skies chose that moment to open and let loose a torrential downpour that had John soaked in seconds. People started rushing to find shelter in shops and doorways. John just sighed and turned up his collar, pulling his jacket tighter around himself to try and stay the cold. He shivered as icy raindrops trickled down the back if his neck and into his clothes.

"Doctor Watson."

John turned automatically at the sound of his name. A young, dark-haired woman was standing beside a sleek black car, an umbrella in one hand and her device in the other which she was looking at rather than at John.

"Yes?" he asked warily.

"Get into the car, please."

John looked at the car and then back at the woman who still wouldn't look at him. "Uh…"

"I can take you to Mr Holmes."

At that, John straightened slightly. "You know where he is?"

The woman nodded and slipped into the car, taking down her umbrella. She kept the door open for him. "Get in, please."

John sighed and obeyed. "This is all very…dramatic."

The woman didn't answer.

John tried again. "Can I ask your name?"

"Yes."

John waited but she didn't elaborate. "…Will you tell me what it is?"

The woman smiled at that. "No."

"Right." The car pulled away from the curb. John settled back into the seat, rubbing his cold hands together to warm them with friction. Neither he nor the woman attempted conversation and the rest of the drive passed in silence.

The car pulled up outside a large building with a gold plaque outside emblazoned with the words that John could only just make out through the driving rain. The one word he could see clearly was 'Diogenes', which meant absolutely nothing to him.

The woman leaned forward in her seat and tapped twice on the dividing screen between them and the driver. The driver got out and opened John's door for him.

"This way, please, Doctor Watson."

_Should've brought my gun…_

John got out of the car and followed the driver to the door of the building. A bell cord was pulled and the door opened to allow them entrance. The driver looked at John and pressed a finger to his lips to indicate that he should remain silent. Confused, John nodded and followed after him.

He was led through a larger room full of armchairs all pointing in different directions. Only two armchairs were occupied at such a late hour; both by elderly men who paid absolutely no heed to John and the driver as they walked through, John dripping like a melting waxwork.

_What the hell, Sherlock. What have you gotten me into _this _time? I've barely known you thirty-six hours._

The driver pushed open a small door and stepped back to let John inside. The moment John had stepped over the threshold, the driver closed the door behind him, leaving John alone.

The room looked to be a small office with a mahogany desk and three high-backed arm chairs. Shelves covered two walls and were filled with all sorts of books, though John noted that most were about politics.

"Just my luck," John muttered. "Help an unregistered and get kidnapped by MI5…"

"Not quite, Doctor Watson."

John whirled round at the sound of another voice. A smartly suited figure stood in the doorway, leaning casually on the handle of an umbrella. John frowned at him. He _knew _this man…

John's eyes widened. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, startled. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Mycroft smiled amicably and walked over to a tray of decanters filled with various drinks. "You've been brought to my little gentleman's club, Doctor Watson – The Diogenes Club, of which I am a founder."

"Right, lovely. And what am I doing here? The last time I saw you, I was being invalided home from the army. They said you sponsored my operation."

"Not just yours," Mycroft said mildly. "I'm attempting to fund a branch of the army that will allow cyborgs to fight alongside their human brothers in arms. It's a slow process, but I do know which ropes to pull to get there." He poured himself a glass of whiskey. "May I offer you a drink, Doctor Watson?"

"Please call me John," John said stiffly. "I'm not a practising doctor anymore. I can't be."

"And yet," said Mycroft, handing him a glass, "you were assigned high-priority caregiving status to an unruly unregistered cyborg mere hours ago."

John's hand tightened around the glass. He swallowed hard and blinked rapidly, pulse ticking up a few notches. "How do you know about that?"

Mycroft raised one eyebrow but didn't speak. John stared at him for a long moment before closing his eyes and groaning softly.

"Of course. I should have known. Mycroft _Holmes_."

"Ah, you have hit the nail squarely on the head, John." Mycroft sat in one of the armchairs that looked distinctly uncomfortable in John's opinion. "Sherlock is indeed my younger brother."

"And you keep an eye on him, do you?" John asked, eyes narrowing. "Watch out for him through security cameras and his other caregivers? Tell me, did Stamford report back to you?"

Mycroft crossed his legs neatly. "In return I kept his family safe. There was no danger of them discovering his hand in Sherlock's welfare. I can do the same for you. That is, if you're not planning on turning him in."

"Of course not," John snapped. "As if I would. Sherlock is safe with me. But I'm not spying on him for you, so don't even bother asking." He crossed his arms, expression flinty. "With all due respect, Mister Holmes, I'd like to leave now. I need to find Sherlock."

"Sherlock has returned to a small flat in Baker Street," Mycroft said calmly. "He's been looking into renting it for a while now. I will have my driver take you there, if that is where you decide to go. I imagine it will be easier for you both if you reside together."

John managed not to scowl. "Look. I met Sherlock yesterday evening in an alley. He needed my help, so I gave it to him. All of this shit that's happened after that was an accident, but I'm prepared to deal with it. I don't know what your problem is, but I suggest you take it up with Sherlock himself and _stop trying to find middle men _because I sure as hell won't be one." He straightened and turned towards the door. "Baker Street?"

"…Yes," Mycroft murmured after a pause. "Two hundred and twenty-one B, Baker Street."

John nodded. "Good evening, Mister Holmes."

"Good night, Doctor Watson. Nice to see you've chosen a side."

John didn't stop to ask what that meant. He just marched through the building and back out into the rain where the black car was waiting. He got in and slammed the door with more force than necessary. "221B Baker Street," he nearly barked. The young woman next to him leaned forward to tap the dividing screen and the driver started the engine.

"My name is Anthea," the woman said. John looked round to find her gazing straight at him.

"John," said John. He held his hand out to her and she shook it before turning back to her device. As she turned, her dark hair parted slightly across her shoulders to reveal something metal on the side of her head where her right ear should have been. John looked quickly away.

The driver stopped outside a Speedy's café and John thanked both Anthea and the unnamed driver before getting out and hurrying to the door, shielding his eyes from the rain. He turned to watch the black car drive away and wondered, not for the first time, what he had gotten himself into.

And while John stood waiting outside the door of 221B, a sniper's crosshair was centred directly at the back of his head.

"_Not yet,_" hissed a tinny voice over a device's speaker unit. "_I want to know if he's definitely involved before you take either he or Holmes out._"

The crosshair disappeared and the hidden sniper sat back on his haunches. "You sure? I have a clear shot."

"_Don't question me. I want to see how far Holmes will go to get his answers. But don't fret, my darling. You'll have his blood on your hands before too long._"

The sniper nodded, satisfied. "Good." He disconnected the call and began to deftly disassemble his rifle.


	5. Chapter 5

John looked round as the door to 221 opened. An elderly woman looked out at him curiously, a kind smile on her face. She was leaning slightly to one side and John glanced down, catching a glimpse of something metal at her hip. He was surprised at how many cyborgs he had actually seen in the last couple of days. His operation had seemed to have given him a greater awareness for the cyberkinetic minority.

"Can I help you, dear?" she asked politely. John smiled in response.

"I'm John Watson. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?" His uncertainty made his hedged statement sound like a question.

"Oh! He's just upstairs, dear." She smiled happily and stepped back to let him in. "I'll take you up to him. He's a cheeky one, that boy. Came to me yesterday asking about a flat. I've known him for years though, so I was more than happy to offer him this one. He mentioned something about a flatshare, which is odd. I've never known him to want to be in anyone's company for long…"

John smiled at the woman's pleasant chatter as she led him upstairs. She stopped outside the door and knocked twice. There was no answer but she pushed it open anyway. "Go right ahead."

"Thank you, Mrs…"

"Hudson, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." John stepped slowly into the flat. He was greeted with the sight of Sherlock sprawled over the sofa, fiddling with something that looked like a bundle of wires fastened together with a cable tie.

"What was so important that you had to run off and leave me behind?" John asked, slightly put out. Sherlock swivelled his head to look at him, frowning slightly.

"How did you know where I'd be?"

John snorted. "Hoping to give me the slip, were you? You know, I'd expect you to be a little more self-aware. As arrogant as you are, you've got to have at least _some _sense of… well, sense in general."

Sherlock frowned. "Seriously, how did you find me?"

John rolled his eyes. "Magic." He slumped down in a free armchair with a huff, flexing his arm with a wince. "Damn joints have seized up again…"

Sherlock sat up, chucking the wires onto the coffee table. He looked at John through narrowed grey eyes. "I can't figure you out, John…" he murmured. "By all rights, you should have turned me in by now. We were around police officers – a _lot _of police officers – and you didn't say a word."

"Why would I?" John demanded. "I said I'd take care of you. I'm a doctor, Sherlock. It's my job. But I'm curious."

"About?"

"You." John leaned forward. "You're entire skeleton is cyberkinetic. Your nervous system, your muscular structure… all of it cyberkinetic. How come?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment before answering. "I was… a very sick child."

John tilted his head, expression open and interested. Sherlock frowned at him in displeasure. "John, this isn't the part where I start to trust you and suddenly open up with a torrent of stories from my past." He scoffed in disgust.

John sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Fine. You don't have to tell me anything. But I won't lie and say I'm not curious. Anything you want to tell me is fine. I won't ask for more."

Completely missing the point of John's statement – which was to reassure – Sherlock derisively said, "Even if you did, I wouldn't tell you."

"That's fine." John rubbed his temples. "You're hard work, aren't you."

Sherlock's lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. "You have no idea." he laid back down on the sofa.

John smiled in response and settled back into the chair. "So. What called you away from the crime scene so quickly?"

Sherlock already seemed bored of the conversation. "Hmm?"

"The crime scene. Why did you leave it in such a hurry?"

"Oh. Oh!" He grinned and swung his legs round onto the floor, sitting upright. He leaned his elbows on his knees and pressed his fingertips together. "Viruses."

John blinked at him. "…Yeah?"

"John, the quickest way to get people to admit to something is to make them think they're in danger."

"…Right."

Sherlock sighed irritably. "John, The boys parents _knew _he was a cyborg. Hey _had_ to know. And yet they still kept him unregistered. What are the main reasons for remaining unregistered?"

John frowned in confusion. "I don't… Um, money, I should think. Lack of funds…"

"And?"

"Am I supposed to know this?"

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "_Inability, _John! Cyborgs are the minority. They can't do things that humans can. They just aren't allowed, for whatever reasons. What could a young boy possibly want to do that would require keeping his cybornetics a secret?"

"Well, anything," John said. It was true. To be a doctor, a soldier, a nurse, a pilot and almost any other job, you had to be entirely human. Cyborgs were relegated to shelf-stacking, shop-keeping, low-profile jobs. It was unfair, but as far as discrimination went, it wasn't the worst. Not by a long shot.

"Good point, John," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "So his parents would do anything to keep his unregistered status a secret."

John immediately thought of Mycroft, but he didn't mention it. "So…?"

"_So_, the boy's parents could have been paying someone to keep their secret. Maybe they couldn't pay anymore…"

"So their benefactor sends a virus into the boy's centreframe matrix to kill him as revenge for not getting the payment," John finished. "That's… awful."

"It's _beautiful," _Sherlock said. "If that's what we're dealing with…"

"It's a pretty outlandish idea, though, Sherlock," John said, feeling slightly sick. It was strange, he mused, that things like this still had the ability to make him feel sick, even after all he had seen at war.

"I bet I'm right," Sherlock muttered and folded his long limbs up onto the sofa. His expression turned glassy and he stared unseeingly into the fire. John felt he had physically watched Sherlock's mind leave his body, but he didn't feel unwelcome. He settled comfortably into the chair, and waited for Sherlock to come back.


End file.
